


drop everything kinda thing

by goldfishtobleroneandamitie



Series: you're human, so am I [5]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Angst, azelma's in a really bad place and I'm sorry, but really so much angst, guiltfic, large amounts of alcohol, mentions of drug use, there were probably better ways to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishtobleroneandamitie/pseuds/goldfishtobleroneandamitie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Éponine is upset, Feuilly handles it as best he can, and emotions are laid bare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drop everything kinda thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [opabine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opabine/gifts).



> "If it’s two in the morning and you’re feelin’ lonely  
> And wonderin’ what I’m doing  
> Go ahead and call me, call me, call me  
> You don’t have to worry ‘bout it baby  
> You can wake me up in the dead of the night  
> Wreck my plans, baby that’s alright  
> This is a drop everything kinda thing  
> Swing on by, I’ll pour you a drink  
> The door’s unlocked, I’ll leave on the lights  
> Baby. you can crash my party anytime"

Éponine hates being taken care of. She never has been before, not since she was five, anyway—she hasn’t known coddling or pampering. Even spa days with Musichetta make her nervous—a knot ties in her stomach, waiting for the other shoe to drop, because this _cannot_ be her life.

If eighteen years of neglect, six on the street, and two of makeshift parenthood have taught her nothing else, it’s that nothing lasts and everything can be taken from you. Any friendliness, any kind word or act, can be replaced, by any whim of God or man, with beatings, berations, and cruelty.

So she’s been forced to count on nothing, believe in nothing, accept nothing at face value—accept  that if it can, the world will beat you down and keep you down, forcing your face into the dirt until you can’t breathe and getting up feels like more trouble than it’s worth. So it’s easier to stay flat to the ground, dirt between  your teeth, then struggle to exhausted, freezing, tired, _aching_ feet—only to feel life’s whip crack across your shoulders once again (or maybe that’s her father’s hand)—and end up on your knees once more.

It’s not like there isn’t precedent, either. As a child, she was washed, fed, clothed, and doted upon with dolls and toys. Hers was an idyllic life among the trash her parents associated with, and it was only when that cosseting disappeared that she’d realized what she’d had.

That was her first experience with having life snatch the floor out from under her feet, but it was by no means the last. Dating Montparnasse in early high school, only to have him hit her; clinging to Azelma when her father rages, only to have her disappear—by the time she hits twenty, Éponine knows disappointment and fear better than she knows fulfillment and trust.

* * *

 The biggest letdown of her life up to that point is Marius—and it wasn’t even his fault. Marius didn’t let her down; life did, by taking hold of her vocal cords and making her say things she regrets to this day. She’d loved Marius, placed him on a pedestal where she could worship him adoringly. He’d been there for her when no one else was, and he’d remained the most stable influence in her life as long as he was in it. He was the first person she’d let, since her parents when she was five, take care of her, emotionally if not physically. He handled her heart tenderly—good thing, too, since she essentially shoved it at him—and it was only when she herself verbally slapped him that he’d fumbled it, dropping it into the dirt, where life had viciously, gleefully stomped on it.

Marius was _smart,_ she knew. No doubt about it; he was far book-smarter than Eponine, and throughout their senior year of high school she’d steadfastly ignored the fact that he would be leaving her in short order. He’d been accepted to every school he applied to, including his grandfather’s alma mater, Georgetown. (She hadn’t applied anywhere; one needed a home address to send letters from, and parental consent to attend). But she’d been ecstatic for the intelligent boy she loved, babbling excitedly about how much of a difference he would make in the world, determinedly shoving her impending loss to the back of her mind.

She’d been so focused on his future that she hadn’t caught his speculative looks, and had brushed off his probing questions into her own plans for the future. Subtlety had never been Marius’s strong suit; how could she have expected _then_ for him to pick up on the imbalance in their futures? So fixed was she on his future at Georgetown that she’d been blindsided by his blunt admission that he’d turned them down in favor of Amherst, less than an hour away.

She’d merely blinked at him, fingers stilled on the housing application she’d been filling out with his name, social security number, waking time preferences, as he launched into a typical Marius-ramble about how he’d realized that he couldn’t leave her so far away and she should come with him and he’d pay her rent and maybe she could work there so she could attend classes next semester—

She’d _screamed_ at him then, all the images of her father’s livid face, her mother’s slack one, phantom bruises forming and fading on her ribs and cheeks, as everything she’d experienced came crashing down on her. This is the greatest gift she’s ever received; therefore, the greatest loss cannot be far away.

This time, she was the orchestrator of her own destruction. She was not sure she could survive Marius’s rejection, so she took it upon herself to beat him to it, because she loved him and losing him, which had been sure she would as he grew to resent her for needing him, she had felt would kill her.

She had known she could not survive Marius shouting at her the way her father had. So she screamed at him for being thoughtless, screamed that she didn’t _need_ him, she didn’t need _anyone,_ and _fuck him_ for trying to _save her. Just fuck him._

Her heart had frozen, bit by bit, as her best friend—the only man she’d ever truly loved—‘s expression had gone from shocked, to hurt, to a steely anger she’d never seen before. He’d risen without a word and left, and her flash-frozen heart, lying in the dirt, had cracked along the fault lines left by everyone who had ever disappointed her.

* * *

 

So when she finds herself outside Feuilly’s door at two AM, not sure what she’s looking for—sex or sympathy or just sleep—she’s not really prepared for when he opens the door. He clearly hasn’t been asleep for very long, his hair isn’t messed up enough for that, but his wife-beater and flannel pajama pants tell her he’s heading there shortly. He’d texted her around nine telling her Courf and Bahorel were coming over, but she doesn’t hear any of their trademark laughter from behind him, so they must be gone.

He takes one look at her face and lets her in without a word.

Anyone else—Marius, Musichetta, Combeferre, even Grantaire—would have wrapped her in blankets with a cup of tea, then needled her to talk about feelings until she screamed. Not so with Feuilly. He heads to the cabinet where Bahorel keeps his good alcohol and pours her a generous glass of whiskey, not even blinking when she tosses it back all at once.

It’s only when she’s on her third tumblerful, sipping rather than gulping now, that her breathing slows down to something resembling normal. When he speaks for the first time, it isn’t even to reference her. “Where’s Gavroche?”

“At Grantaire’s. They had a boy’s night.” She sips her drink, savoring the the burn, and watches as he mirrors her. “I saw her, Gael. I saw her.”

“Who?” He isn’t playing dumb. She’s only ever mentionedAzelma in passing, and never by name, so his question is born of honest confusion.

“Azelma. My sister.” She drinks again. Feuilly blinks in surprise, but says nothing, and she can’t see a trace of judgment in his eyes. She used to think those eyes were unreadable. She knows better now, knows how his eyes light when he’s happy to match the barest hint of a sunny smile, that they trace with gold to match his hair in the sun, and how they go nearly black, pupils blown to cover the iris, when he’s aroused.

Now, though, they are simply warm, chocolate brown, attentive without being inquiring. It’s the very lack of pressure to talk that somehow, inexplicably yet inexorably, draws out her story.

* * *

 

“When I hit the streets, Zel followed me. But when I left, when I got out…she didn’t.” She hunches her shoulders. “I tried to find her, clean her up, but she kept running away, back to her boyfriend—and when I got close to suing for custody of Gavroche I…I stopped looking,” she admits. “I couldn’t have the social worker know I couldn’t keep track of my own sister, and she kept leaving…and she’s eighteen now, and I couldn’t take care of her, Gael. I _couldn’t_.”

Her breathing is coming faster again, her voice edging towards hysterics as she begs with looks and every shade of pain in her voice that he believe her, that he _understand._ Her voice is shaking and she hates herself for it, but Feuilly doesn’t move, doesn’t touch her, and she both loves and hates him for it because she’d kill for his warmth right now but she needs to finish this story she’s begun—needs him to know the darkest part of her soul, the part of her she is least proud of. She is not merely a street girl, not merely a burnout or a barista; she is someone who abandons hope when things get hard.

She knows that isn’t true. But everything that’s happened tonight has brought every doubt she’s ever had to the forefront, and she has to tell _someon_ e or she’ll explode.

“I saw her at a bar tonight—the one across from the Corinthe. She was with her boyfriend, Montparnasse,” she explains. “She….she looked _wrong_ , Gael. Like she wasn’t part of the real world anymore. She’s on something, I know it, and that bastard’s got her and I can’t _do_ anything, not tell Gavroche or call the police or…”

She’s crying now, sobbing and shaking like her bones will crumble and she doesn’t know that Feuilly’s moved until she feels his arms around her. He still says nothing, and she curls into him like a kitten or a child, still sobbing into his shirt. He links his hands underneath her knees and carries her into his bedroom, cradling her like he would his baby sister, and arranges himself underneath her on the bed. His shirt is getting wet, but he ignores it, merely rubbing her back and murmuring nothing like he does when his sister’s had a nightmare.

Her crying eventually subsides, and he silently thanks God because he honestly doesn’t know what he’s doing. Seeing her in front of his door, shaking like an addict, had scared the shit out of him. He’s been on autopilot ever since, knowing she’d probably hate it if he coddled her—God knows he’d hate it if she did him—so he offered her alcohol because it’s the only thing he knows that’s reliably made the pain go away, if only for a little while.

And then she’d let _this_ loose on him, the fact that her sister’s probably an addict who she’d essentially left on the streets. He can’t hate her for it, can’t even judge her—he knows that Gavroche would probably be dead by now if Eponine hadn’t fought for him, and if what she’s told him about Azelma is true, then there wasn’t a whole lot more she _could_ have done. But seeing Eponine, his beautiful, strong, wild, effervescent Eponine, reduced to this shaking girl in his arms—it makes him cold to the core.

He wants nothing more to wrap her tight and tell her that everything will be all right, that the world isn’t a horrible place that can destroy little girls as soon as look at them—just like it doesn’t destroy teenage boys who make stupid decisions—but he can’t. Because it is, and most of all should know that and be able to understand _her_ because of it.

So he tells her only what he knows to be true. “I love you.”

She’s been buried in his chest for long minutes without moving, but she shifts at this. “What?”

“I love you.”

“That’s what I thought you said.” She pushes against him, backs against his arm, and he lets her free but only far enough to snatch her wrist. She scrubs the other hand across her eyes, smudging her eyeliner. Her eyes are glassy, probably from the alcohol he’d all but poured down her throat, but direct, and she studies his face as critically as she would a painting of Grantaire’s or a speech of Enjolras’s. “You love me?”

He knows what she’s asking. _You’re not just saying that because I’m upset?_

He also answers the only way he knows how. “I love you.” There’s no tightness in his chest, no jealousy at the words, only plain, simple truth. So he says it again, only because it feels good coming off his tongue. “I love you.”

She launches herself back onto his chest, attacking him with her lips, and he accepts it with great enthusiasm until her hands begin to snake towards the button of his jeans. Mentally groaning, he covers her hand. “Ep, no.”

“Why not?” she demands, flexing her fingers.

“Because you’re drunk, and still upset.”

“You got me drunk,” she mutters.

“Because you were upset. Do you want to talk about Azelma?”

“What’s there to talk about?” she asks, settling back despondently. “I’ve done what I can, Gael…I can’t change her. I can’t leave Gavroche…I can’t help her, but I can’t just _leave_ her.”

He pulls her closer again, again by the wrists. “We’ll try again. But you can’t hate yourself for this.”

“I normally don’t fall apart like this,” she mutters, then settles back facedown into his chest. She fits there obscenely well, and he lets his hand settle on  the small of her back, the other lacing through her left hand.

“We’ll find her, Eponine. Or we’ll try,” he amends. He will not lie to her. Not now, not ever.

She looks up at him through her lashes, and he kisses her forehead. She crawls up his chest only enough to kiss his lips again, not fiercely like before but instead tenderly, lovingly. He kisses her worshipfully, because she truly is a goddess who he is privileged to worship, but at the same time she is reassuringly _real_ under his fingers, real in her beauty and laughter and pain that he, somehow, can mitigate.

She pulls away again, and he almost groans at the interruption until he registers that she’s talking. “What?”

“I love you too, you know.”

His eyes meet hers, and her eyes are no longer glassy, drunk with whiskey and tears, but clear and piercing. She meets his brown eyes, shifting from dark brown to amber with happiness, and she feels a lightness in her stomach unlike anything she’s ever felt before.

They fall asleep like that, she with bubbles in her stomach, tracing patterns over his chest, and he with an arm around her waist, whiskey bottle open on the kitchen table and fear and pain forgotten, at least until the morning. And even if it returns, it could never hit her with so much vengeance as it had, because she has someone to share it. Someone who will never lie to her, but will continually reassure her and strengthen her solely by letting her know he loves her.

_You can wake me up in the dead of the night_  
 _Wreck my plans, baby that’s alright_  
 _This is a drop everything kinda thing_  
 _Swing on by, I’ll pour you a drink_  
 _The door’s unlocked, I’ll leave on the lights_  
 _Baby, you can crash my party anytime_

**Author's Note:**

> ....wow. This is probably the most angst-filled thing I've ever written. I love to hate on Montparnasse, by the way, and he's basically the resident douchenozzle for this fic. I'm not sure if I'm going to flesh out the Azelma storyline, but if I do and you have suggestions I'd love to hear them. This bit is really to focus on how they take care of each other, because Feuilly legitimately does -not- know how to handle this sort of thing. So he handles her the way he'd want her to handle him, and there's no question there's different and probably even better ways to take care of her at this point, but it absolutely does work for them. And that's awesome. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I apologize for the mini-rant--
> 
> star
> 
> P. S. The lyrics are from Jake Owen's "Crash My Party", because this was not intended to become as dark as it did--also, my country obsession is bleeding over from my other series, "sirens will sing (music of the spheres)". We'll be back to poetry soon, I promise!


End file.
